


A Taste of Murder

by pennydreadful



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Multi, Multiple Partners, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennydreadful/pseuds/pennydreadful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a group of murderous women start taking out well-to-do men in London, Sherlock must infiltrate their crime ring and discover their motivations. He has a clue--now it's time to get down to some hard-nosed detective work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death in the Alleyway

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic kinkmeme, which asked for:
> 
> Sherlock discovers a group of deadly, lovely femme fatales has set up a crime ring in London. He investigates the murder of a man by one these ladies, and uncovers a vital clue--a pubic hair in the man's mouth. Now Sherlock must infiltrate the crime ring and find out which one of them committed the murder. The only way to do this? He has to perform oral sex on as many of these deadly ladies as possible, until he uncovers which one of them is the murderess.
> 
> The hitch? I want this in John's POV--Sherlock wants him there in case one of them tries to murder him. So John has to hide out and watch each time he charms his way into their panties. And Sherlock is good at eating out.
> 
>  
> 
> This was my filthy, highly-pornographic, pansexual response.
> 
> **Since I get these questions a lot: I fully give my permission for anyone to translate any of my works into any language, make podfics/audiobooks out of them, or post them elsewhere (as long as you give me proper credit). Go for it, you don't have to ask! And thank you very much!**

The whole thing started, as most things in their life, with a murder; a man, late twenties-early thirties, clean-cut, neatly dressed, sprawled in an alleyway with a bullet hole through the top of his head.

"His name is Randy Decker," Lestrade read from his notepad. "Father owns a large share in Tesco, mother hosts a talk show on the telly. He fits with the others. It's got to be those women again."

John watched Sherlock as he knelt next to the body.  The alleyway was dark and Sherlock had a small flashlight, shining the beam over and around the corpse, searching, studying.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "There's not much blood or gray matter. He was killed elsewhere and dumped here, like the other four."

"And from a wealthy family," John added, feeling as always superfluous in these situations. "Like the others."

"It's got to be them," Lestrade said. "We still don't have much information—including why suddenly there's a ring of women killing off well-to-do blokes and dumping them in alleys. We've run out of ideas."

Sherlock made a small sound, as if to say 'of course you have.' He shone the light on the man's face, his eyes open and bulged from the blast. John looked away. He'd seen plenty worse on the battlefield, but that didn't mean he liked it.

"If we could just catch one of them, we might get some answers," Lestrade said.

Sherlock was studying the man's face closely, light shone in his slack mouth.  He shifted his leg and nudged John with his foot. A signal.

"So there's really a ring of murdering women doing this?" John asked, strolling over to Lestrade. He positioned himself casually so as to block his view of Sherlock and the body.

"Oh yes," Lestrade said. "We've gotten leads, done surveillance, even brought a few people in for questioning—but it's not getting us anywhere. We don't have enough evidence to come down on anyone. We're chasing shadows."

"Kind of makes you scared to chat a girl up in a pub, doesn't it?" John gave a humorless laugh.

Lestrade just fixed him with a grim look.

"Must have put him on his knees," John said, trying to sound as smart as Sherlock. "A shot like that, it's execution-style. As if women weren't intimidating enough…"

"It's a hell of a way to go, yes."

"At least I don't have to worry much," John said.  "I'm certainly not wealthy."

"All right." Sherlock sat up and clicked off his light. "I'll put out the word, tell you if I hear anything." He rose to his feet, a tall, lean shadow in the darkness.

"Thank you," Lestrade said. "For helping us, again."

"Believe me, the pleasure is all yours."


	2. The Stolen Evidence

The whole thing proceeded, as most things in their life, with a trip to St. Bart's so Sherlock could study his snuck bit of evidence under a high-powered microscope.

"So what did you find?" John asked, pacing behind him.

"A hair," Sherlock said, peering into the microscope.  "A very specific type."

John stopped pacing and looked over his shoulder. "On his coat or something?"

"In his mouth."

John frowned. "How do you know it's not his own?"

"I hope it isn't." Sherlock sat back and looked around at him.  "Since it's a pubic hair."

John stared at him a moment and tilted his head.

"It's dark, coarse." Sherlock turned back to the microscope, but didn't look in. "I wish I could test it for DNA, but they don't allow me access to the equipment after the last incident."

"So, he…"

"He wasn't shot execution-style. He was shot through the top of the head while performing oral sex."

John gaped. "That's—ghastly."

"He must have been terrible," Sherlock muttered.

"What?"

"I said it's terrible. We need to find the woman he was orally pleasuring. We find her, and we infiltrate the ring, start getting some answers."

"Well that's not going to be easy, now is it?"

Sherlock glanced up at him, and then busied himself removing the slide from under the microscope.  John had become familiar enough with Sherlock's behavior to know what his avoiding questions meant.

"Sherlock!" John said. "You know more than you're telling Lestrade, don't you?"

"I always know more than I tell Lestrade."

"Do you know who's in this ring?"

"Some of them." He put his sample into a small case. "Six of them, I've identified. I'm sure there's plenty more."

"Why haven't you told the police!"

"Because that's _boring_." He made a disgusted face. "Finding out who they are isn't the game. Figuring out _why_ they're doing this is much more exciting. And if I can deliver them and their motives in one neat package, then more points for me. More cases for me in the future."

John stared at him in disbelief. "And how do you intend to do this?"

"I need to find the owner of this." He held up the case. "Infiltrate her, gain her trust, find out why she did it."

"How are you going to find the exact woman who did it?"

"I need to collect samples.  Until I find a match."

"How are you going to get samples?"

Sherlock stuck his tongue out and wiggled it at John. Then he sat back, arms crossed, looking mildly amused and fully smug.  John thought for a moment he misunderstood.

"I'm sorry, I thought you're implying you're going to perform oral sex on a bunch of femme fatales until you find the one with the matching pubic hair."

"Brilliant. I didn't even have to spell it out. There's something to be said for vulgarity."

John continued starting at him because he didn't know how else to react. "You've gone mad."

"I'll need you to come with me though, John. I'll need you to observe secretly."

"What!"

"Well what if one of them tries to kill me?" Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. "Tries to shoot me through the top of the head? I'll need you there, armed, ready to defend me if necessary. I can't have a gun on me when I'm in such close physical contact."

"You want me to…" John wasn't sure he could find the words. "You want me to watch you perform oral sex on random women?"

"For my safety."

"It would be safer not to go licking up the minges of violent criminals!"

"Safe. Boring. John, I _need_ you."

And unfortunately, that was all Sherlock Holmes ever had to say to gain his compliance.


	3. Melissa

The first one was named Melissa, and Sherlock chatted her up at a posh party he managed to get them invited to.  She was slender but curvy, in her heels came up just past Sherlock's chin, and had long, luxurious, wavy blond hair. Sherlock turned on the charm, acting like a human being, and it was always unnerving to watch him work, turning on emotions like a bloody actor. John stayed far enough away not to interfere, but he kept hearing her laughter, bright and sweet and feminine. She wore a slinky, black, strapless dress which came to mid-thigh on her sleek legs and had on shiny pink eye makeup.  John tried to remind himself at worst she might be a murderer, at the least she was a criminal.

"She's not even a brunette," John said in the washroom, when he and Sherlock stepped in to have a discussion.  "You said the hair was dark."

"It's dyed," Sherlock said, washing his hands at the sink and checking himself over in the mirror. John had never seen him preen. "You can see the dark roots up close. John, I need you to get drunk."

"What?"

"Well, not really. But I need you to behave as if you have.  Very drunk."

John knew asking questions would get him nowhere, so as the evening wore on, he pretended to be getting drunk—though he kept making the same glass of champagne appear as if it were a new one. He didn't want to start knocking things over or dancing on tables however, so he just started slurring his words and stumbling around.

At the end of the evening, Sherlock slung an arm around him and pretended to hold him up as they went outside. "Poor, sloshed John," he said, feigning amusement, which sounded uncanny. "Melissa is going to have her driver give us a ride home. You won't be sick in her car, now will you?" Melissa followed them out, laughing.

John tried to pretend he was barely on his feet, head hanging and mumbling nonsense, but he wasn't nearly as good an actor as Sherlock. Sherlock whispered close to his ear, "Pretend to pass out in the car. Keep your hand on your gun."

Sherlock hauled him into the back of a very nice car with two bench seats facing one another and dropped him across one. John made sure he sprawled with one arm twisted behind him and clutched the butt of his pistol. Through nearly-closed eyes he watched as Sherlock and Melissa got in and sat on the seat opposite him.  They sat very close together and John tried not to eye up her legs.

"Is he all right?" She asked.

"He'll be fine," Sherlock said, and slipped an arm across the seat behind her. He lowered his voice, "Is your driver coming soon?"

"Oh, he'll be along." She waved a hand at the window next to her. "He's just having a fag. You're not in a hurry, are you?"

"Not at all, actually." John watched Sherlock slide a long, graceful finger up her thigh. She parted her legs slightly. "I was wondering if you might tell him to go for a walk or something, actually," Sherlock said.

She giggled softly. "You can come home with me, you know."

Sherlock looked over at John and John closed his eyes the rest of the way.  "Oh, I'm afraid I can't," he said. "Last time he was like this, he nearly asphyxiated on his own vomit. I can't leave him by himself."

John had to force himself not to scowl.

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "That's a shame. I thought we might…" She trailed off suggestively.

"That's why I'm asking if you could send your driver off for a bit."

"With your friend here!" She sounded more titillated than scandalized, the trollop.

"He's passed out." John felt Sherlock nudge him with his foot and again had to fight the urge to react.  "He won't know a thing."

John suddenly realized the situation—Sherlock was going to do just what he said he would, not with John watching from a distance for his safety, but right there in the car with him present.  He had the urge to 'wake up' and pretend he was going to vomit.

Melissa started giggling again, but was interrupted by the sound of soft, sucking kisses. John opened his eyes just a slit and saw Sherlock's fingers were now up under the edge of her skirt and he was kissing her.  He moved to kissing her jaw and throat, and she sighed in delight, eyes closed.  She reached up and slid her fingers into his hair.

"You're such a handsome man," she whispered. "Truly irresistible."

"So I've been told," he murmured against her neck, and John had an up-close-and-personal view of Sherlock's hand sliding fully up under her skirt.

"I'll phone my driver," she said breathlessly.

While she did this, Sherlock continued kissing her neck and working with his hand under her dress. John couldn't see exactly what was going on under there, but he had an idea. He suddenly felt very warm, and realized he was clutching the gun rather hard. After she clicked off on her phone she emitted a soft moan, and judging by the faint, wet sounds, Sherlock had at least one of those long fingers buried inside her.

"You're very wet," he whispered, close to her ear, and his voice was rumbling and throaty. "Have you been like this all night?"

She licked her shiny pink lips, her eyes closed. "Most…of it. When you were flirting with me…"

John knew he should close his eyes fully, lest she catch him watching, but he couldn't make himself.  And if he had, he would have missed Sherlock then sliding his hand out from under her skirt and sucking two of his glistening fingers into his mouth. John nearly groaned. He could actually _smell_ her.

Sherlock slid off the seat, somehow graceful despite his long limbs and the limited space. He shot John a glance and John snapped his eyes shut.  He shifted, ever so slightly, hoping the growing bulge in his trousers wasn't visible in the darkened car.

He heard Sherlock moving around, on the floor, very close to him. Then he felt the weight and pressure of—him—nudging against his other arm, dangling off the seat. He felt the soft whisper of Sherlock's trouser leg against his fingertips.

More movement, wiggling, giggling. Then a soft "oh!" and John opened one eye, just a little.

Sherlock was now wedged between the two seats, on his knees, hunched over, and Melissa's legs were over his shoulders, her heels in the air. A pair of delicate white satin knickers dangled from one of her ankles. She moaned and dropped her head back on the seat, eyes closed, and John opened his fully. Sherlock's dark, curly head was buried between her thighs, and she pushed her fingers into his hair.

John got even warmer and hoped really badly they couldn't see in the dark. The only way to hide his response would have been to roll over flat on his stomach and his movement would draw attention. Melissa kept her eyes closed, thankfully, and her moans became louder—though bless her, she seemed to keep trying to stifle herself for his benefit.  John surmised Sherlock must be using both fingers and tongue, judging by the subtle rocking of his body and jerk of his shoulder, as well as the rather sloppy sounds being produced. _God, she must be soaking the seat_ he thought, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from making a sound.

John cursed inwardly as all his senses seemed to heighten. The air smelled like _woman_.  He could feel the slight shift of the car and Sherlock's trouser leg, stroking across his fingers. He could hear the little sounds Sherlock was making, beneath her moans and the wet slosh of in-and-out fingers and lapping tongue—little breathy, grunting noises. Where had Sherlock bloody Holmes learned to eat a woman out with such fervor?  He could imagine it wouldn't be hard to get a woman to agree to it of course, with one look at those lips of his. _Now where hell did that thought come from_?

John closed his eyes again and prayed for it to be over soon. He was hard now, really hard, and he should have known Sherlock would enjoy torturing him like this.

Thankfully, Sherlock was good enough at his job she only took a few more minutes. John was in agony though, listening to her squirm, hearing her say, "Oh, I'm nearly there!" and Sherlock's delicious, encouraging moan in response.  When she started to come she gave a little shriek, and John opened one eye just enough to see her stifle the sound with her fist. She was squirming everywhere, her thighs locked around Sherlock's head, her heels digging into his back. John could hear Sherlock sucking at her and God, she must have been positively flooding his mouth with her juices.

John closed his eyes and kept them that way, listening to her pant, listening to and feeling Sherlock move around. He was breathing hard. John felt him nudge him—pointedly, with his elbow—and knew this must mean something. "You really should come home with me," she said, breathless and languid.

John felt Sherlock nudge him again. He groaned in response, hoping that was the right thing.

"Oh dear," Sherlock said, sounding concerned. "I don't think that's going to be possible."

John groaned, louder.

"Oh no, I've got to get him out of the car!"

John let Sherlock drag him, boneless and staggering, out the door. He didn't think he could make himself vomit on command, though he was sure this was something Sherlock had taught himself to do. "I best get him home!" Sherlock said anxiously, as he hauled him up on the curb. "It was a wonderful evening Melissa!  I have your number, I'll call you!"

John kept up the act as Sherlock pulled him hurriedly down the street, until Sherlock said, "All right, we're out of sight."  Then he let go of him and John stood upright.

John had no idea what to say.  Sherlock pulled a vial out of his coat pocket. As they walked, briskly, Sherlock stuck his tongue out plucked at it, grimacing. Finally he pulled something off, something John couldn't even see, put it in the vial, and corked it. "Thankfully," Sherlock said, and smacked his lips, "she needed a trim."

John looked at him, and then quickly looked away, because his lips and chin were wet. Thankfully, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

"You didn't say I'd have such a front row seat," John said tersely.

"In that case, there was no other choice."

"All well and good, but next time, could you not make me sound like your pathetic, alcoholic mate you always have to look after?"

That night, John wanked so hard in bed he nearly hurt himself. Sherlock left early in the morning for the lab and texted him around noon.

 _Not a match. Round two._

 _SH_


	4. Victoria

Victoria was tall, dark-haired and dusky-skinned, and absolutely gorgeous. Sherlock went out with her and then back to her house and John nearly killed himself climbing in her second-story bedroom window. He just managed to hide himself in the closet when the two stumbled into her bedroom, kissing feverishly. She wore a long, bright, clingy red dress and dark red heels, the colors very complimentary to her skin tone.

"Can we put on the lights?" Sherlock asked. "I want to look at you."

She turned on the lights. Her room was very sexy, all silk and satin, and John would have loved to been sprawled on her bed. She sat down on the end of it and flopped back, knees open, and looked up at Sherlock with a predatory gaze, licking her dark red lips.  John kept his hand on his gun. She was a bold and feisty creature, just the sort who might shoot a man through the top of his head.

"Come here," she drawled at him, sat up, and caught him by the belt loop.  She pulled him close and palmed the crotch of his trousers. "Let's see what you have for me in here."

"No, no." Sherlock took her wrists. "Let me take care of you first."

She gazed up at him, long lashes obscuring her eyes, and her lips curled in a wicked smile. "Ooh, I like you."

Sherlock kneeled next to the bed.  She kicked both her heels off and they thumped against the wall near the closet, making John jump.  She was not the least bit shy.  She rested back on her elbows and lifted her legs—encased in sheer stockings with black garters at the top—while Sherlock hiked up the skirt of her dress and proceeded to slide her knickers off. They were lacy red, the same color as her shoes.

John realized this time he was going to see everything, in unobscured detail.  She gripped his hair like she meant to pull his head off and John tightened the grip on his gun.

"You better take good care of me," she warned.

"Oh don't worry, I intend to." John had never heard Sherlock sound so compliant.

John couldn't help but be transfixed as she spread her legs even wider and placed her stocking-clad feet on his shoulders.  She still had a hold of his hair. She was trimmed down there, her pubic hair dark, her slit glistening. John caught his breath when Sherlock parted her with a stroke of his long tongue, pink and pale like the rest of his mouth, a stark contrast to her dusky folds.  She gave a groan of approval as Sherlock squirmed his tongue inside her and brought his hands up to grip her narrow hips.

John was caught between burning arousal and the idea he ought to take notes as he watched Sherlock pleasure her. John had never been so skilled in going down on a woman, and he did it for pleasure, not investigations. Sherlock struck the perfect balance between stimulating her clit and fucking her with his tongue. John realized he was gauging her responses as well, concentrating on the things which made her moan the most and clutch tighter at his hair. Before long she was grinding against his face, smashing him against her, and even through it must have been like drowning in sex, he managed to keep working her.  He finally plunged two fingers into her, all the way to the second knuckles, and massaged her clit firmly and rhythmically with his tongue.

John was hardly aware he was rubbing his stiff cock through his trousers, until she came, loudly and luxuriously, and he squeezed himself and nearly came as well.  He thought she was going to break poor Sherlock's nose off, but he rode it out admirably.  She fell back on the bed panting and Sherlock finally came up for air, face glistening and red, and smiling like he'd just solved a case.

"I'm going to slip into something more comfortable," she purred. "You stay right there, on your knees."

She got off the bed, and John feared for a moment she would come to the closet, but she sauntered out of the room instead. Sherlock stayed where he was, looking at his fingers. He pulled a vial out, put his sample in, and corked it. Then he looked toward the closet and gave an urgent jerk of his head.

They got the hell out of the house, quickly and quietly as possible. John hoped Sherlock didn't give any of these women his number, or they might hunt him down for his abrupt departures.

"I'll bet it was her," John said, breathless as they hurried down the street—he could blame it on the physical exertion. "She's a wild one."

"We'll soon see." Sherlock wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Later that evening John recieved a text.

 _Round three._

 _SH_


	5. Crystal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning: this chapter is very, very kinky!

Crystal was younger than the other two—at most in her very early twenties. She was much too tan to be a proper London girl, probably from a tanning bed, and John could see quite a lot of her skin to judge by. She also had long blond hair—definitely chemical, as her dark roots were at least a finger-length long. She was wearing a green and pink checkered bikini, standing in the plush white living room of her house.

"I was just going to get in the pool," she said. "Indoor. Heated."  She seemed to be boasting. Her father was a well-to-do investment banker and they'd come under the guise of having an appointment with him, knowing full well he wasn't there. "Daddy's always forgetting appointments. He should be back within the hour."

She was shorter than John and chubby in a voluptuously attractive way; thick thighs, wide hips, a soft stomach, and a nice round backside and full bosom. She looked Sherlock over from head to toe, hands on her hips. This wasn't going to be difficult for him at all.

"Damn," Sherlock said. He turned and looked at John, biting his lip. "Would you mind terribly going and picking up the dry cleaning? I told them I'd be there by three, that's when they close." He looked back at Crystal. "You don't mind if I wait here for your father, do you?"

"Not at all," she said. She gave John a cursory glance, then looked back at Sherlock, a smile tugging up her lips.

John feigned leaving the house and looked for another way in, being careful to check for security cameras first. There was an enclosed patio leading onto the living room and he entered it through an outer door, then positioned himself outside the door to the living room and cracked it open a little.

He couldn't have been gone more than ten minutes and Sherlock had already maneuvered himself into place.  He was sitting on the couch, and Crystal sat next to him, very close, one leg tucked underneath herself.

"Are you sure you don't want something to drink?" John heard her ask.

"No, no. I'm fine." Sherlock was fidgeting with his hands in his lap, bouncing one knee.

"Can I—entertain you some other way then, while you wait?"  She slipped a hand onto his thigh.

 _What the hell does he do to get in so fast?_ John wondered.  _Does he reek of bloody pheromones or something?_

Sherlock seemed to be playing coy and shy, but this didn't stop Crystal from feeling him up, rubbing her hand on his crotch. He kissed her, and John noticed he was acting awkward instead of self-assured like he had with Victoria and Melissa. _She's younger_ , John reasoned, _doesn't want to scare her_.

Crystal didn't seem scared at all though, especially when she started undoing his trousers.

"Um," Sherlock tried to stop her. "You really don't have to—what if your father comes home?"

"Oh, he won't. And if he does I'll hear him pull in."

Before he could protest further, Crystal had her head in his lap. John noted Sherlock had diverted the other women from pleasuring him, but he had no choice in this matter as Crystal was insistent. John couldn't see much, as her hair was in the way, but a moment later her head started bobbing and Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. John realized from her movements Sherlock must be hard, or getting there, because she clearly had something to work with.  He slid a hand down her back, massaging slowly, and then onto her bottom and squeezed one of her plump buttocks.

"Please," Sherlock said, and opened his eyes. He looked right across the room, at the doorway where John stood. John looked away and checked his gun was at his hip though he damn well knew it was.  "Let me take care of you," he heard Sherlock say, and looked back. "Please, I want to."

Crystal sat up. John saw his cock, her hand still around the base of it; long and thick, and very hard. Crystal looked uneasy. "You don't have to," she said.  "I mean, I like this just fine."

Sherlock stopped playing coy.  He urged her back and pressed her against the arm of the couch.  He kissed her, snaking a hand down her belly, to the top of her swimsuit bottom. "Please," he said, almost too low for John to hear. "I'd like to taste you.  You must be delicious."

Crystal worried her lip between her teeth. "All right…" She didn't sound certain.

"Have you never had it done before?"

"I—I have.  It's all right, if that's what you want."

Sherlock slid downward. Cupping her breasts.  Kissing her belly. He peeled her bottoms down and John noted, the bastard hadn't tucked himself away yet and he was still hard.

Sherlock stilled, staring at her crotch. John craned his neck to see, and then he did, and realized what had stopped Sherlock in his tracks.

She was shaved. Completely, smooth-as-baby's-bottom, bare.

"All right down there?" She asked uncertainly, chewing at the tip of her finger.

Sherlock looked up, snapping out of his shock, and said very casually, "Oh yes, everything's fine."

Lack of samples or not, Sherlock didn't give her any less a performance than he'd given the other two.  He rucked her meaty thighs over his shoulders and buried his face right in it. John didn't have quite as good a view as with Victoria, but he got to watch Crystal's reactions, and she had some lovely ones—toe curling, squirming, whimpering like a puppy. The only thing he found odd was how her expressions cycled between slack-mouthed pleasure and sudden, wide-eyed panic.

After a few minutes, she clutched Sherlock by the hair. "Oh, you've got to stop!" She cried out, sounding frantic.

Sherlock popped his head up, chin and mouth wet. "Why, am I doing it wrong?" He asked. If he had come up looking like that between John's legs, flushed and tousled and breathing hard, he would have come on the spot.

"No." She shook her head, chest heaving. "It's just…oh…it's so embarrassing." Her cheeks, already pink, flushed redder.

"What is?" Sherlock caressed her thigh. "What's wrong?"

She nibbled at her finger, still wearing a pained expression. "It's just…when I come…" She grimaced, and then said, "I squirt." She said the last word in nearly a whisper, so John barely heard it.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.  She slapped her hands over her face. "Oh it's so weird!" She cried. "I'm sorry!"

"It's not weird," Sherlock said. "Many women do that. They built an entire faction of the porn industry around the skill."

She lowered her hands, looking at him wide-eyed.  "You…you don't think it's weird?"

"Not at all. Please.  Let me continue. And whatever your body's natural reaction, it's all well and good."

John had to resist plastering himself against the door, his full, rapt attention on the scene.

She must have been much more relaxed, encouraged by Sherlock's reassurance. It only took a minute more and she was off. John expected a gush, a squirt, maybe something like a man coming. What he wasn't prepared for was a veritable geyser erupting from her cunt. Sherlock tried to draw back and still got blasted full in the face. The sound she made wasn't human, writhing and bucking beneath him, liquid flying everywhere.

When she went to clean up they escaped. At the street, they hid behind a tall hedgerow and Sherlock wiped his face with his handkerchief. It was actually dripping from his chin.

"Why did you go on with it!" John admonished him. "When you saw she was shaved! We should have gotten the hell out of there!"

"Because women talk, John." He continued mopping his face. "If the women in that ring start talking to each other about me, and find out I didn't go down on her, it's going to seem suspicious."

"Don't you think it's going to seem suspicious if they start talking and realize you've been going around eating them all out?"

"I can explain that. Obsessive fetishist. Stalking them and trying to perform oral sex on all of them. At worst they'll mock me and kick me around a bit."  He looked at John, seemingly confused. "What?"

" _What_? I can't stand here and talk to you while you're soaked in—in…girl cum!"

Though his face was now clean, he was still literally covered in it. Beads of it were glistening in his hair. His shirt was plastered to his chest. It glistened in the hollow of his throat. John realized, quite urgently, he wanted nothing more than to lick it off his skin, to taste her on him. He also should have realized not even the subtlest reaction got by Sherlock.

Sherlock dipped his fingers into that slick hollow between the open lapels of his shirt, and pressed them to John's lips. John sucked at his fingertips, before he could stop himself, and tasted her musk and the salt of his skin.

"Oh Christ," John breathed out, and before he knew it, Sherlock's fingers were in his hair, and John's face was pressed to his neck, and his tongue was sliding over his slick skin. He tasted like the sweet, bare folds of her pussy, like sex, and underneath it, like the way he naturally smelled, crisp and clean. John heard him make a sound of approval, low and rumbling in his throat, and he jerked back, remembering they were standing on a street in broad daylight.

"This has to stop," John said, turning away, trying to collect himself. He licked his lips and realized he was so hard he wanted to collapse.

"Well unfortunately it's not," Sherlock said.  "Now we've got to move on to another."


	6. Selena

Selena was a lean, sleek black woman with skin the color of dark chocolate and the voice of a phone sex operator. They got into a poker game with her and some of her friends in a pub her brother owned. John lost horribly. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, won more than a few hands. After the pub closed, Selena decided to congratulate Sherlock on his winnings—on top of the table they'd been playing poker on. She was splayed across it, skirt tugged up and legs spread, her bottom at the edge of the tabletop, where Sherlock sat in a chair as if he were ready for dinner. He was eating, for certain. John was hiding in a nearby broom closet.

There was something captivating about Sherlock's pale face between her dark thighs, about his lily-white hands sliding over her mocha skin. She moaned deliciously, her voice making John go weak in the knees. He gave up trying to deny he was turned on. He undid his trousers, worked his cock out, and started stroking while he watched. He made sure to keep his other hand on his other gun, just in case.

When she came, John was close too. When Sherlock lifted his head, cheeks flushed, eyes pale and intense, chin glistening, John forced himself to stop stroking because he refused— _refused_ —to let that be the thing which put him over the edge.

Selena was a bit more forceful than the others. Sherlock tried his usual tactics to keep her from doing anything to him, but she would have none of it. She locked her legs around his waist when he stood up.  She got him out of his trousers. He was hard, and John realized for the first time this must actually turn him on, instead of just being clinical work.

"You really don't have to," Sherlock said helplessly, as she stroked him. His pale cock in her dark hand was almost too much for John to take.

"Oh but I want to," she said, gazing up at him like a hungry panther. She had a condom, clever girl.  She put it on him.

John bit hard into his lip when he pushed into her, his whole length sinking in with one go. She moaned. John almost moaned. She braced herself on her hands and he gripped her hips, dragged her up against him, and started fucking her.  Hard. Rough.

John lost all sense of shame and started stroking himself vigorously. He might have had some dignity left, afterward, if not for what happened next. Over her shoulder, Sherlock looked up at the closet. Flushed, eyes unfocused, lips parted, looking on the verge of orgasm, and suddenly John realized, knew, Sherlock was getting off on being watched. On John watching him.

The realization put John right over the edge. He came, in the dark of the closet, biting into his wrist so as to stifle a cry, the gun shaking in his hand. He didn't have the presence of mind to care he'd just come all over everything in the closet. He heard Sherlock groan, looked in time to see his eyes flutter and roll back in his head, jaw slack, grinding into her as she clutched at him, moaning out her own pleasure.

The two of them were silent walking down the street afterward, for a while, though John could hear Sherlock's quick breathing.  "Did you even get the sample?" John finally asked.

"Yes, wiped it on the handkerchief in my pocket."

John just nodded.  He hoped, prayed, she was the one.

The next day, Sherlock announced she wasn't.


	7. Dana and Denise

"I've discovered something," Sherlock said to John, and it must have been an important something, given the serious look on his face.  John was in front of the mirror in the living room of their flat, checking himself over.  Sherlock told him to dress sharp for tonight, though he didn't say why.

"What have you discovered?" John gave him his full attention. Sherlock was dressed sharp as well, in a black suit and white button-up. He sat in front of his laptop, frowning at the screen.

"There's a connection with all the men these women have murdered. One Lestrade didn't mention."

As if he had room to be upset at Lestrade for not telling him things. "You mean other than all of them being from well-to-do families?"  John sat down on the couch.

"They're all part of a rather prolific drugs-smuggling ring between London and Berlin."

John stared at him a moment. "Why wouldn't Lestrade mention that?"

"I'm thinking he doesn't know." Sherlock turned to look at him. "It's very undercover. The Yard has barely had word of it.  But I know people with information, of course."

Of course he did.  "So these men were all drugs smugglers?"

"Yes." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "But why are the women in this ring killing them?"

"Maybe they're connected." John felt the thrill of the chase, as surely as Sherlock did. "Maybe these smugglers have come up on their territory."

"Perhaps." Sherlock looked back at the screen. "The plot, as they say, does thicken."

They were going somewhere that night, somewhere which required them to dress up. It was a party, like the one they'd been at with Melissa, and John wondered how many damn parties these women liked to throw, in between killing men and being molested by Sherlock. However, John's cynicism disappeared when he discovered the reason for the nice clothes was because he and Sherlock both had dates.

Dana and Denise were gorgeous brunette twins with sparkling green eyes, curvy hips, and ample bosoms overflowing the bodices of their short, tight, leopard-print dresses.  They giggled in stereo and John nearly melted into a puddle at their feet.

"Oooh, I'll take the tall one," the one on the left said with a wink.

"And I'll take the adorable one!" The other said gleefully.

John discovered later he had Denise, but it didn't matter, because they both liked to dance, drink wine, and they both smelled incredible. John liked it best when Denise danced with him, wiggling all over him and at one point, giving his arse a nice hard squeeze. He liked when she shared her wine and kissed it off his lips.

"Please try to remember these women are criminals," Sherlock reminded him when they stepped outside to wait for the cab they'd called. The girls were collecting their coats. "Possibly murderers."

"Yes, and you haven't been enjoying any of this one bit, have you?"

"I've kept my wits about me, John. It's stressful."

"Oh yes, it must be dreadful for you, this case. Positively horrible. Eating out multitudes of gorgeous women, having your cock sucked, shagging on tabletops. I don't know how you're enduring it."

"And at any moment, one of those women might shoot me in the face." He then muttered, "Imagine how insulting that would be."

"Yes, what an absolute affront to your oral talents."

The girls came out, arm in arm, smiling with cheeky delight. "Let's go to our place," one said. "You gentlemen don't have anywhere to be, do you?"

John couldn't imagine anywhere he would rather be, after all the sexual frustration, than in the sweet-smelling bedroom of one or the other when they reached the girl's flat. He didn't know if it was Dana or Denise's bedroom—maybe they slept together. John imagined them naked and entwined, just like in a porno. Whatever the case, they both crawled on the bed and beckoned, with coy smiles. John didn't even care getting it off with Sherlock right there was going to be the most awkward adventure of his life.

John tried to busy himself with Denise so he wouldn't have to pay attention to what Sherlock was doing with Dana, despite the fact they were all well within touching distance of each other on the bed. Denise had a lovely mouth, with nice soft, plump limps, and she tasted like wine and candy. She felt amazing under his hands, full and lush, the way he liked his women. She giggled and moaned breathily as John felt her up, the sounds mirroring her sister's on the other side of the bed.

John was annoyed to see in short time Sherlock had Dana's legs in the air and his head between her thighs. He had no intention of rushing right out of there as soon as Sherlock got his sample. He also wasn’t about to be outdone. He went down on Denise so she wouldn't feel left out. When he got down there, much to his chagrin, he found himself trying to remember Sherlock's techniques.

Denise was pliant and wet, and she tasted absolutely divine, so very musky and sexy. He drove his tongue into her and lapped her up, clutching her hips to bring her flush against his face.  She clutched his hair and squirmed and moaned, and John was inwardly proud of himself. He could hear Dana making the same sounds and he felt a bit like he was in a competition.  Sherlock had already been at it for a bit, but he was determined to get Denise off before Sherlock got Dana off.

However, Denise foiled his plans.  He was happily licking away when she stilled him and made him look up at her.

"Let me take care of you," she cooed at him. "I'll show you I have a nice mouth too. Come up here."

He wanted to protest, but the offer was too damn appealing. Sherlock still had his head between Dana's thighs and she was squealing. _I would have won anyway you prat_ he thought as he moved to the head of the bed. Sherlock was at the bottom, legs dangling off. He glanced up as Denise maneuvered herself between John's legs. She undid his trousers.

She did have a nice mouth, and John groaned and clutched at the bedclothes when she took him deep inside. He hadn't had a blowjob in a while and it was exceedingly nice. He kept his eyes closed, concentrating on her soft lips around his shaft and her sister's sexy sounds, and definitely not thinking about the fact Sherlock was dragging them out of her.

A few minutes into it, Denise emitted a strangled, gurgling moan around his cock which vibrated right down to his balls. John opened his eyes and saw at once what had affected her so. He couldn't see exactly what was going on from his vantage point, but he got the gist. Sherlock was still slurping away at Dana and had reached over and pushed his fingers into Denise.

It couldn't possibly be for the sake of gathering a sample. John could do that for him. He was showing off, taking care of both sisters at once. Denise squirmed and moaned again, and reached for her sister. They clutched hands between them and every pornographic fantasy of John's life seemed to be blooming to life right before his eyes.

John tried to be belligerent at Sherlock for being so infuriating even at a moment like this. However, he couldn't manage it, because there were so many incredible things assaulting his senses, and he was so close to orgasm. Despite the fact Sherlock started plunging his fingers into Denise so hard she was shuddering against John's thighs, she kept up the vigorous and quite precise blowjob.

John never should have gasped so loudly, so close to release his toes were starting to curl. As soon as he did Sherlock's gaze snapped up and focused right on him. Dana shrieked like an animal then, bucking up against him, her body shuddering. Sherlock lifted his head and let her ride it out on his fingers. But he was looking at John, mouth wet and open, cheeks flushed, eyes pale and shining and gaze unmistakably, unquestionably wanting and sexual. And then John was coming, and he couldn't close his eyes, and he couldn't look away from Sherlock's face, and he felt more vulnerable than he ever had in his life but he came so hard and so deliciously he couldn't do anything but spill and shudder. Denise drank him down eagerly, with a lusty moan, but he barely remembered she was there.

Sherlock ducked his head, finally breaking the gaze, and slid his tongue along his upper lip, eyelashes fluttering. John knew it wasn't the girl he tasted there.

They'd already established they couldn't have sex with the girls. They both had guns on them and couldn't get naked.  John felt horrible at the idea of not getting Denise off but Sherlock took care of that as well.  She moaned against John's thigh and humped herself on Sherlock's fingers until she was quaking like her sister.  John didn't mind really, he felt completely useless and rubbery in the wake of his orgasm.

"We'll go out and get a bottle of wine," Sherlock told the girls. "And anything else you like. If you promise to both be naked when we get back."

Denise giggled, snuggled to her sister's side. "Oh, I want some chocolate biscuits!" She said.

"And pastries!" Dana added. "We always get peckish for a bit of sugar after sex!"

They promised to return soon and left. John felt bad for lying.

On the way back to Baker Street in the cab, they were both quiet, John staring out the window, Sherlock straight ahead.

"You all right?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Yeah, yeah. You get the samples?"

"Of course."

"Good."

They fell back into silence.


	8. The Game Comes Undone

The next morning, John was puttering around the flat, still in his nightclothes and sipping tea, when he heard someone on the stairs. Sherlock looked up from his laptop and frowned. The steps were too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson, and it sounded like more than one person. When Mycroft appeared in the doorway, crisp and dapper and smiling his usual condescending smile, Sherlock made a despairing face.

"God, who let you in here?"  Sherlock asked.

"The door was open," Mycroft said brightly, and stepped inside.

John didn't care about being less than proper in front of Sherlock's brother, but Anthea slid in beside him then, smooth as a cat, and John's cheeks burned and he got awkward. True, his nightclothes weren't exactly indecent—comfy bottoms and a t-shirt—and she didn't even look up from her Blackberry, but he would have rather had a warning. He didn't like looking frumpy in front of such a delicious woman, especially when last night's sexual energy still lingered in his veins.

"You could have let me know you were paying a visit," Sherlock said. "What do you want?"

"This is a bit of a welfare check," Mycroft said. "May I sit?"

"No," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft strolled across the room to the facing chairs in front of the fireplace, dusted the seat with his glove, and sat. He put his umbrella next to him, propped against the arm of the chair.  Anthea drifted over as well to stand behind him, still staring at the screen of her phone.  John stood awkwardly by the mantle.

Sherlock sighed and stood, with dramatic exasperation. "I'm fine, Mycroft. And even if I wasn't, I wouldn't require your intervention."

Mycroft smiled up at him, and John could see the family resemblance so horribly it made his skin crawl. "You always think that, and you're always mistaken."

Sherlock stood with his hands on his hips. "What do you want?"

"I've come to help you."

"With what!"

"The case you've been working on."

John cringed inwardly, thinking of all the surveillance. Surely Mycroft didn't know entirely what they'd been up to. He hoped not, anyway.

"I don't need your assistance," Sherlock said.

"No, you seem to be getting on quite well. Getting in quite deep, so to speak."

John rubbed his face.

"If you have any information on the crime ring," Sherlock said, "I don't want to hear it. I'll find it out myself."

Mycroft sighed, as dramatically as any one of Sherlock's reactions to anything, and put his hand on his umbrella handle. He tilted the umbrella back and forth idly. "I found it amusing at first, which is why I've let it go on so long. But now I'm worried for your psychological well-being."

"What are you talking about?"  Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock." He leveled his gaze on him.  "You can stop chasing after those women. I'll have word sent for the police to quietly close up the case and leave it be."

"And why would you do that?"

"Because they're sanctioned."

Sherlock stared at him.  So did John.  "What?" Sherlock asked.

"Assassins," Mycroft said. "Sanctioned by a certain private branch of the government.  They're doing what they should, slowly taking care of the London-Berlin drugs cartel. Everything is fine. You were just, unfortunately, at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Sherlock continued staring at him. John felt the way Sherlock looked—like he might want to find the nearest hole and bury himself in it.

"You're lying," Sherlock said.

"I'm not."  He tapped his umbrella against the floor, then lifted it, and swung it back to motion to Anthea.  "This is the murderess you've been trying to find."

She looked up from her phone, gave Sherlock a smile, and then looked back down.

John's mouth fell open.

"It isn't," Sherlock said, still defiant. "I refuse to believe you."

Anthea looked up again, still smiling.  "Do you need a sample, Mr. Holmes?"

John nearly broke the teacup in his hand.

"Yes, actually," Sherlock said, and glared at Mycroft. "I refuse to accept any of this until I have proof."

Mycroft shrugged casually and swung his umbrella back down, and put the tip back to the floor. Anthea gave a soft sigh, as if they were interrupting her, and lowered her phone. She sauntered over to Sherlock. She was wearing a skirt which fell just above her knees, and heels that made her as tall as him.

"The girls simply can't stop raving about you," she said, and reached out to smooth a hand over Sherlock's hair. "Victoria says you're the best she's ever had. And Crystal—she says you're so very kind and understanding, didn't flinch a bit at her little issue."

Sherlock's expression turned to one of dismay, and realization.  When he tried to draw back, Anthea gripped his hair. "Oh, silly man," she said, "don't think you're going to go down on all of my friends and leave me out in the cold."  And with that, a woman, probably for the first time in his life, put Sherlock forcefully on his knees in front of her. He widened his eyes and stared up at her.

John thought he might fall straight over. Mycroft chuckled and stretched his legs out. "Have a seat John," he offered, nodding to the chair across from him.  "We have a fair bit of catching up to do."

John sat, not because Mycroft suggested it, but because it seemed the sensible thing to do given the weak state of his knees. He put his cup aside and watched as Anthea pulled Sherlock up by his shirt and guided him to the couch.

"So how's it going at the surgery?" Mycroft asked.

"Um." John couldn't tear his gaze from the scene across the room, where Anthea pushed Sherlock flat on his back on the couch. He was still staring up at her in shock and disbelief.  "It's—going well, I suppose?"

"Still seeing that comely Sarah woman?"

"On and off." His voice came out a squeak.

"She seems like a pleasant woman. And I did a thorough background check for you. No worries."

"Th-thanks." John's mouth fell open. Anthea had gotten on the couch and hiked her skirt up. And straddled Sherlock.  Straddled his face.

Mycroft chuckled. "She never wears knickers." He smiled indulgently. "Doesn't believe in them. Say's they make her too humid."

John crossed his legs as Anthea settled herself on Sherlock's face and brought her Blackberry up. She resumed texting.

"Sherlock's had you on quite a ride, hasn't he?"

John kept gaping. Anthea's bare hips and thighs were the most arousing thing he had ever seen, especially framing Sherlock's head. John could only see his forehead and his hair, but he didn't seem to be struggling. In fact, a moment later he brought his hands up to grip where her legs met her hips and faint wet sounds could be heard. She sighed in delight, moving her hips a bit, and continued staring at her phone.

"John?"

"Um." John jerked his attention to Mycroft. He was painfully erect in his pajama bottoms and he squeezed his legs together tighter.  "Yes, it's been—um, dreadful."

"Has it?" Mycroft fixed him with a concerned look and steepled his fingers. "He's quite rough on you, isn't he?"

"Yes, it's—" Anthea gave a lusty, full-throated moan then, and John glanced over. "Oh Jesus," he whispered. She was working her hips vigorously now, and had actually taken one hand off her phone to fist in his hair.

"He should be more considerate of others. I've always told him that. Always thinking of his own needs."

"Well that's a sociopath for you," John said helplessly.

Anthea threw her head back, gasping, hair tumbling down her back. "Oh God, they were right!" She cried.

"Yes," Mycroft said despairingly. "Always taking, never giving. I don't know how you put up with it."

Anthea bucked her hips, very literally riding his face now. Sherlock's fingers were digging into her thighs. John had an unbidden wave of fantasy, a mad urge to run over and slide right into her from behind while Sherlock continued bringing her off with his tongue.

"You know I hate you," John told Mycroft, unable to keep his voice from coming out breathless and husky. "I hate both of you.  No, wait.  All three of you."

Mycroft smiled pleasantly. Anthea shrieked and writhed in orgasm. "Oh, yes! Sherlock Holmes!"


	9. The Taste of Heaven

Mycroft and Anthea left a few minutes later.  Aside from being a bit flushed, Anthea was unruffled and her attention back on her phone. Mycroft gave them a condescending bow of his head as he went. Sherlock sat on the couch, looking ridiculously furious with a flushed, wet face and tousled hair.  John remained sitting in his chair, cock literally throbbing and trying to find words, any words.

"Did you get a sample?" He finally asked, pointedly.

"No need," Sherlock said, bitter. "How did I not _know_? I should have _realized_."

"Hm," John said.  "Well I'm glad this is over, because I couldn't take another second of it."

Another moment passed and he got up. He didn’t care he was tenting his bottoms. It was pointless to hide anyway. Sherlock met him at the door and blocked his way to the stairs.

"You want to taste her," Sherlock said. Not a question, a statement.

"Don't—"

"Don't tarry, it'll fade."

John was on him in the space of a breath. Attacking his lips. Kissing, sucking, tasting. John groaned.  He pushed Sherlock's mouth open with his tongue and tasted her even stronger behind his teeth. She tasted like heaven.  John withdrew and sucked at his lips again, plump and warm and firm, chasing the taste of her sweet cunt until he'd licked it all away and it was only Sherlock.

John drew back, breathing hard. "What did she feel like?" He asked, his voice thick with lust.

"Soft. Hot. Like dipping my tongue into warm honey."

John groaned. He curled his fingers against Sherlock's chest. "Sherlock," he said, breathing the word out. "I don't—I don't know what this is, but we'll talk about it later. I need—to go upstairs, right now, and be alone."

Sherlock pressed him against the wall, next to the doorway. "Don't you wonder how I got so good at it?"

"You're a bit full of yourself, aren't you?"

"But I _am_ good at it."

John gave a breathy laugh. "Yes. Apparently."

"In school," Sherlock said, and he was staring into his eyes. "At university. I gave tutoring. Any subject—I was good at all of them. The smartest, coveted for my knowledge. I did an exchange. My knowledge for theirs. I taught people what they needed to learn, and they let me practice on them."

John stared at him. "Wait, you—what?"

"It's a useful skill to have, as you've seen, not even for the obvious reasons. Sexual knowledge gets you access to quite a bit of information. And people are very susceptible post-orgasm, or when extensively aroused."

"So you—" John blinked at him.  "You tutored people if they let you perform oral sex on them, to perfect your skills?"

He smiled, that 'oh aren't I clever?' smile of his. "Ingenious, isn't it?"

"It's—something."  He rolled his head against the wall. "Sherlock, I'm—not fit for this discussion right now. Let me go."

"Oh John," he said despairingly. "Arousal makes people so very thick, too. You didn't even catch the main point of that story."

John looked back at him. "What?"

"My ambiguous use of pronouns, of course."

John gazed at him puzzled, and then it struck. "Oh, wait—you mean…"

"I didn't only tutor women." And with that, he slid down John's body.

"Oh, Sherlock! We can't—"

"You're right." He paused and stood back up. "We can't, right here." He grabbed John by the arm and dragged him toward the kitchen. John was so discombobulated he could only be pulled along, and gasp helplessly when Sherlock put him up on the table. Sherlock started pulling his bottoms and boxers down and John fell back on his hands.

"Sherlock!"

"You've been frustrated to the point of madness," he said, and yanked his bottoms and boxers fully off, then tossed them on the floor. "I'm sorry about that."

"You don't have to—"

Sherlock dropped to his knees next to the table. Tall bastard he was, it still put him head and shoulders above it. He grabbed John's hips and pulled him to the edge. John couldn't fight, and he already had his thighs around Sherlock's head like one of the women he'd been so recently servicing.

"Sherlock you don't need to—oh shit!" His hands slid out from behind him and he fell flat back on the table, startled at the very sudden sensation below. He thought Sherlock would go right for his cock, but he hadn't. He'd squirmed his very hot, very wet tongue right up inside him. John gripped at anything he could reach—a notebook, a tea cozy—and clutched helplessly.

"Oh Christ, oh fuck, _fuck_ …" John had become a babbling idiot. He braced his feet on Sherlock's shoulders and pushed against his mouth because there was no point, none at all, in trying to stop it now.  He couldn't believe how long his tongue seemed to be, how deep he got it in. Then he stiffened it, pointed it, and started fucking him with it.  John groaned and swept his arm across the table top. Objects banged and clattered on the floor. He didn't give a fuck, not a single one.

By the time Sherlock took his tongue out and licked up his cock, John was nearly ready to come from the stimulation alone. He felt very wet and open down there now, and it should have been alarming, but in the next second Sherlock had his mouth over him and nothing else mattered. John gripped a handful of Sherlock's curls and knocked more things off the table with his other arm.  He bucked his hips up, trying to fuck his face, and Sherlock grabbed them and forced them back down, clearly wanting control of the situation.

Then, to truly finish off what was left of John's brain, Sherlock stuffed not one, but two fingers right up John's spit-slicked hole. They were so long, so delightfully invasive. John arched his back, and opened his mouth, but no sound came out, save for a high-pitched whine from the back of his throat. He'd had fingers up his arse during blowjobs before, but never like this, never so masterful and sure.

Sherlock's head was bobbing furiously in his crotch, and John had a tight hold on his hair. He was sucking almost painfully hard, but the pressure was right, just _right_. Coupled with his fingers, buried so deep inside him, pressing on his prostate, he needed to come so badly his thighs were trembling, his stomach hitching.

Then it was all gone, all of it—Sherlock's mouth, his fingers, him—and John wanted to scream in outrage. But Sherlock was up on his feet, backing away from the table.  John sat up, t-shirt twisted around his chest, cock wet and jutting up obscenely, legs dangling. Sherlock gazed at him, the same look he'd given him from between Dana's legs, lips wet and parted, eyes intense. They panted at each other, open-mouthed.

Then Sherlock ripped his shirt open, literally yanked it apart, buttons flying off and bouncing across the tile. John was off the table in a second. Sherlock caught him, spun him around, and flung him up on the sink counter. Dishes and pans hit the floor in an insane cacophony. Sherlock was undoing his trousers, frantically, and John reached above him and gripped the shelf of the cupboard.  He wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist and helped him push his trousers down to his knees with his feet.

John had never, and Sherlock probably knew that, but it didn't give either one of them pause. John gave a strangled cry when Sherlock pushed up into him, impossibly hot and hard, the way slicked with only his own pre-cum and the spit he'd already tongued up there, but it didn't hurt, not even a little. It felt incredible. A firm, blunt pressure against John's prostate, and he could barely stand how good it was. Sherlock cleared the rest of the counter with a sweep of his hand. The noise was ridiculous and marvelous.

Sherlock started fucking him, hard, the way he'd fucked Selena, grunting and panting, the way he did between Melissa's legs. John scrabbled at the cupboard shelf and more things fell. He didn't care. He moaned like Anthea and drew his legs up, voluptuous and wanting, just like Victoria.

Sherlock fisted John's cock between them, in perfect rhythm with his thrusts, gazing down into his eyes. Sweat slid down his forehead and dripped from the tip of his nose.  John kissed him desperately and this time he tasted himself on him.

John felt the contents of the cupboard shelf slide forward and caught a ceramic cup with his hand. He flung it over Sherlock's head and it shattered against the opposite wall. The rest came clattering down and he just leaned out of the way. He sucked at Sherlock's tongue and moaned. He felt himself start to clench around the hard, slick shaft inside him before he actually started to come.  Then everything was hot and wet and he was shooting all over both their stomachs, moaning Sherlock's name over and over.

A few more thrusts, rocking John through his orgasm, and then Sherlock slid out and stroked himself wildly over John's still-pulsing cock.  Sherlock groaned as he came, his face a mask of helpless, eye-rolling pleasure. His release joined John's on his stomach and chest, and across his t-shirt.  John thought briefly they should have taken a moment out of their mad passion to find a condom, but something told him Sherlock was just as meticulous as he was about everything else in getting regular tests done.  If not, they'd both make a visit just to be sure.

John slumped on the counter, head resting against the cupboard, panting. Sherlock stumbled back, jerked his trousers up listlessly, and slumped against the table.  After a few minutes of gasping and calming, Sherlock looked around at the floor. "Oh, what a mess we've made here."

John laughed breathlessly. "Yes. I hope Mrs. Hudson was out."

Sherlock waved a languid hand. "She hears explosions up here so regularly I doubt it would even be noticeable."

John chuckled, and then groaned. "Oh, my back. My—everything."

"Sorry."

"Don't be." He sat up straight, slowly and delicately. "Are you still angry at Mycroft?"

"Absolutely livid beyond the telling."

"As am I."


	10. One Last Taste

They left the mess in the kitchen, cleaned themselves up, and John found a pint of ice cream in the freezer next to the preserved fingers. He got a craving for sweets after sex too.  They sat on the couch together and ate out of the carton with two spoons.

"So all those women knew," John said. "And they still let you go on with it."

Sherlock sucked his spoon clean. "Well, I am good at it."

"So if it had been a ring of murdering—excuse me, _sanctioned assassin_ —blokes, you would have gone about it the same way?"

"Doubtful. Unless they were all gay, which would be improbable. And peculiar."

"Good thing you didn't come up on any lesbians."

"Who do you think were my best teachers at university?"

John smirked and dug out another spoonful of ice cream.  "So, how many people did you tutor?"

"I never kiss and tell, John."

**Author's Note:**

> sevenswells has done artwork for this fic. [You can see it here.](http://sevenswells.livejournal.com/67748.html) (NSFW! PORN!)


End file.
